the other men was there before him. As he stepped in at the
door they were dragging their chairs noisily up to the table. Brayley,
one eye swollen almost shut, his lips thick like a negro's with the
blows which had hammered them, had just taken his seat. The men's eyes
were quick to catch the bruised countenance of the man at the door,
and ran swiftly from it to Brayley's face and back again. One man
chuckled aloud, Toothy giggled like a girl, and the others grinned
broadly. For a moment Brayley's face darkened ominously. Then his
frown passed, and he turned about in his chair toward the door.

"Hello, Con," he said, quietly.

"Hello, Brayley," Conniston answered, in the same tone.

Brayley's eyes went back to the men at the table, shifting quickly
from one to another. He ran his tongue along his swollen lips, but
said no word until Conniston had washed and taken his own chair. Then
he spoke, his words coming with slow distinctness.

"Conniston jumped me this mornin.' I had a lickin' comin' to me. You
boys know why. An' I got it."

He stopped suddenly, his eyes watchful upon the faces about him.
Conniston saw that they were no longer grinning, but as serious, as
watchful, as Brayley's.

"That was between me an' Conniston. There ain't goin' to be no makin'
fun an' fool remarks about it. He done it square, an' I'm glad he done
it! If there's any other man here as thinks he can do it I'll take him
on right now!"

Again he paused abruptly, again he studied the grave faces and
speculative eyes intent upon his own. No man spoke. And Conniston
noticed that no man smiled.

"All right," grunted Brayley. "That ends it. Cookie, for the love of
Mike, are you goin' to keep us waitin' all night for them spuds?"

The meal passed with no further reference, open or covert, to the
thing which was uppermost in the minds of all. Many a curious glance,
however, went to where Conniston sat. He was conscious of them even
when he did not see them, understood that a new appraisal of him was
being made swiftly, that his fellow-workers were carefully readjusting
their first conceptions and judgments of him.

When he had finished eating, Conniston went straight to his bunk. He
had no desire for conversation; he did want both rest and a chance to
think. He was straightening out his tumbled covers when Lonesome Pete
tapped him upon the shoulder.

"No hay for yours, Con," he grinned. "Not yet. Miss Argyl wants you to
come up to the hou